Chapter 10
Somerset House is one of those London landmarks I’ve heard of, but it hasn’t particularly infiltrated my consciousness except as one of the options Miles’ assistant Angela serves up for ice skating, along with the Natural History Museum.
Given that I’ve walked past the museums multiple times over the past month, I opt for the novelty value of Somerset House.
And apparently it’s easy for Miles to get there from the City.
Because Miles is joining us. It’s Friday afternoon, and he’s promised to get out of work early and see us there. I’ve held onto this delicious prospect since Angela informed me she’d made the booking for three people at Miles’ request.
I’m not sure why I find it so delicious.
There’s obviously the reassurance of the fact that I’ll have another adult for moral support, because I can’t skate for toffee.
I’ve only been skating once, in Dublin, in fact, and I didn’t let go of the rail for more than a few seconds each time.
Apparently there are penguin skating aids for the little ones to hold onto, so Bea should be fine, at least.
But there’s something more. There’s something that blooms inside me at the prospect of spending dusk on Friday in a magical environment with Miles and Bea.
Some part of me wants to see if he’ll come to life on the ice.
If he’ll let himself go. Surely the ice is a good leveller.
He’ll either be crap, and we’ll have a good laugh, or he’ll be one of those annoyingly good skaters, and being unleashed will put a twinkle in his eye.
He can’t be the same as he is off the ice, all stiff and closed and tight.
Can he?
When Bea and I walk under the huge archway that takes us into the Somerset House courtyard, I’m unprepared.
I wasn’t expecting this much magic, and beauty, and majesty.
The immense rusticated stone building—apparently it’s an old palace—is lit up in peachy-pink all around us, and spread ahead of us, lined with festive stalls, lies the ice rink.
The sound system belts out Christmas music—currently Slade—and all around me is the sound of Londoners having a wonderful time, getting stuck into food and drink and fun, reminding themselves what Christmas can be like when the world is open again.
It’s intoxicating. This is why I came to London. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be here, and to be experiencing London very indulgently thanks to Miles’ generosity.
I squeeze Bea’s mitten’d hand, then stoop down to pick her up. ‘Look at this, pet! Isn’t it gorgeous? Are you excited?’
‘I want to see Daddy.’ Bea cranes her neck. ‘And I want hot chocolate.’
‘Please,’ I say automatically. I pull my phone out of my pocket. There’s a message from Miles.
I’m here. By boot hire.
We make our way over to the boot hire stall, and there he is.
Head bent over his phone, obviously. He has a beanie on, and that grey scarf is tied tightly around his neck and tucked into his coat.
But, as wrapped up as he is, he’s instantly recognisable.
Something about his height, and his impeccable posture, and his mere presence, for want of a better word, makes him stand out in any crowd.
And that face.
Of course, that face.
I still have Bea in my arms when we approach him. He spots us, and his face brightens, and he shoves his phone in his pocket.
‘Hi, baby.’ He leans in to kiss Bea on the cheek, and he’s so close to us both, and the obligatory shiver hits my spine at my favourite phrase coming from his mouth and at his proximity.
‘Hey.’ He nods at me. It’s not hi, baby, but it’s not as hostile as previous greetings, and I’ll take it.
Within minutes, we’re booted up and edging out onto the ice, and right now I would kill to have the grace of a newborn foal as I cling desperately to the rail around the edge of the rink.
Bea looks like one of her American Girl dolls, with her locks poking out from under a pale pink, pearl-encrusted beanie and her beautiful matching palest pink wool coat. It even has a velvet collar. She’s in tiny skates, and she’s gripping the penguin’s handles. She’s ready for action.
Miles glides—yes, glides, goddammit—effortlessly onto the rink. He circles back and stands, hands on his hips, his mouth twitching in amusement as he eyes me up.
It’s annoyingly sexy.
‘Come on, Bambi. Let’s see what you’ve got.’
I shoot him my dirtiest look and try letting go of the rail.
I make a tentative move that’s half slide, half step, before my legs threaten to give way beneath me.
Sweat instantly pricks under my arms despite the fact that I’m bloody freezing.
Shit. What was I thinking, booking this?
This is going to be the worst. I swear under my breath.
‘What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.’ Miles is grinning now, and the appearance of his dimples is the only good thing about this nightmare.
‘Nothing.’ I shoot him another dagger and blow some hair off my face. I’ve got this.
Miles turns to Bea. ‘You okay there for a sec, baby? Mind if I help your incompetent nanny?’
Bea grins. She’s hunched over the penguin like a determined old lady with a zimmer frame, but at least she’s in full control of her limbs.
‘Come on.’ Miles holds out a leather-gloved hand. ‘I won’t let you fall. Is it your first time?’
‘Kind of.’ I eye the hand with suspicion. That dry, Groogy exterior could be hiding the soul of a twisted bastard.
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Seriously, come on.’ He holds out his other hand.
‘I don’t want you to fall because of me.’
‘I won’t. I’m a lot heavier than you. And—ahem—more experienced.’
He’s full-on smiling at me now, and I find myself taking my hands off the rail one at a time and putting them in his, because the force of his smile is so great that I’d follow him over the edge of a cliff if he asked.
‘Well done.’ He glances behind him and takes a couple of graceful glides backwards, and I follow him.
I can’t feel his heat through two pairs of gloves, but the grip of his large hands is secure and unflinching.
I’ve taken precisely two steps, so the sudden sensations of smugness and wellbeing that envelop me are certainly unwarranted.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter.
‘Not a problem. I’ve got you, okay? I’m going to let go of one of your hands so I can steer Bea, too, and we’ll go for a little walk, the three of us. All right?’
He drops my right hand and grips my left one harder. ‘Come on, Bea.’
And we’re off. Yikes. Instantly, I can feel my weight is too far forward. I’m constantly on the brink of stumbling over my own feet.
‘Try to keep your back straighter,’ Miles tells me. He’s completely straight-backed.
He’s a pro.
I straighten up and allow myself to relax.
Just a bit. Last Christmas belts out from the speakers and my fellow skaters stream past us in a haze of colour and laughter and movement.
I throw Miles a non-smirky, genuinely happy, grateful smile and lift my face up to the cool air.
The dark sky is lit in a pinky haze above us and, although we’re moving far more slowly than the people streaking past us, this is invigorating.
And festive. And surprisingly intimate. And—
We’re down.
My feet shoot out to the right, and I crash, my bum hitting freezing, soggy ice.
Ugh. And ouch. Miles may be heavier and more competent than me, but he’s no match for my particular brand of clumsiness on this ridiculous surface, and he’s totally taken by surprise.
I bring him down, and he lands on his knees with an oof sound, crouching sideways over my body. It’s like Twister gone horribly wrong.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gasp. ‘Oh my God, Miles—I’m sorry. Bea? You okay?’
Miles thankfully released his grip on the penguin as he went down and Bea stands over us, her hand plastered over her mouth, trying in vain to hide her laughter at the car crash in front of her.
He turns his head to me. His face is so close to mine. ‘I’m fine. Bea’s fine. How are you?’ He’s trying to catch his breath. His eyes roam over me. ‘Anything hurt?’
‘Just my bum.’ I groan. ‘And my pride.’
His mouth twists in amusement. ‘You’ll live. Come on.’
And he drags me to my feet.
God. My quads are burning, just from trying to get up and stay upright. This is the worst activity ever. It’s—oh.
He’s spun around, so he’s facing me, and he takes hold of both my hands. Tight. ‘Let’s try again, Bambi. It’s your only chance of getting out of here with your pride intact.’ He turns to Bea. ‘You okay to give it a go on your own, princess? We’ll go super slowly.’
‘But won’t you crash? You can’t go backwards.’
‘Everyone’s skating in the same direction,’ he points out. ‘There’s no one to crash into unless someone falls. But you can be my eyes.’
I look up into his face for confirmation that this is really happening, and he nods at me, but it’s not curt like his usual nods.
His eyes are soft. Kind. And his fingers are tight on my hands.
We move off cautiously, with Bea valiantly pushing herself along beside us, and the three of us make slow but deliberate progress around the rink with our fellow revellers.
There’s a genuine risk that I’ll let my feet get out of sync with his. I look down at my feet for the millionth time. Nope, they’re still miraculously moving forward of their own accord. Left, right. Left, right. Miles is mirroring my movements backwards.
‘Eyes up,’ he says. ‘Eyes on me.’
I look up at him, and he’s watching me, his eyes flicking over my face, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
And then it’s as though it’s just the two of us, floating on the ice, as I give my entire focus over to the miracle that is having permission to drown in his brown eyes, which are currently warm and encouraging and… something.
And not just that, but there’s the glorious security of my hands in his determined grip, and the sensation of being perfectly in sync with him.
‘You’ve got it. See, you’re doing brilliantly.’ He gives me a smile then. A proper smile. With dimples. And heat rushes through my body, from my head to my toes.
I take it back.
Skating isn’t stupid.
It’s fantastic.
After an acceptable period has passed (probably fifteen minutes), Bea and I put Miles out of his misery and quit the rink so he can enjoy himself.
And what a sight it is to see him enjoying himself.
As I predicted, he’s transformed. He glides gracefully around the rink as fast as the crowd will allow, while I stand with Bea in my arms for a good view and soak up the glorious sight of his tall figure cutting a dash through the ice.
‘Ha!’ I point. ‘Look, Bea! Your Daddy just did a spin!’
After a few minutes of serious flair, he glides back over to us, stopping with a dramatic flourish, and winks.
‘Ladies.’ His nose and cheeks are flushed, and his scarf has come loose from his coat.
I could swear he’s just taken ten years off his age.
His face is unguarded and clear. And if there was ever a time to grab that bloody scarf, and pull him in for a kiss, and feel the flush of his cold skin and warm mouth on me, this is it.
‘That was very impressive.’ I keep my tone light.
He shrugs. ‘Skiing holidays for New Year, every year as a kid. There was always an ice rink. My brothers and I were very competitive. I’d forgotten how much fun it was, though.’
This is news. ‘You have brothers?’
‘Two. I’m the oldest. I bet you could never have guessed that.’
We hand back our boots, and Miles buys a hot chocolate for Bea and mini bottles of Moet & Chandon, who are sponsoring the ice-skating, for himself and me.
I sip the delicious champagne through a clever gold mini-funnel thingy and revel in the glow the alcohol gives me.
Although, if I’m honest, the alcohol is probably not the cause of the warmth that’s spreading through my body.
It’s the memory of Miles leading me, his hands on mine, his eyes on me, that does that all on its own.